


Always Into Something

by laratoncita



Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Brotherhood, Canon-Typical Behavior, Drabble Collection, Drug Dealing, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Mexico, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Prison, every single fic i write abt oscar has that tag and im tired of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-10-20 02:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20667548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: Can’t take the Freeridge out of everyone. (Requests cross-posted from tumblr.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from lighter shade of brown's "homies" bc i couldnt convince myself to just call this collection homies :(

“I don’t get it,” Ruby says, watching as Oscar jogs back to the backyard, he and Cesar each with a beer in hand. There’s bistec on the grill, a cookout for Cesar’s sixteenth, and he showed up early to get the vibe right. “One day he’s chopping off some dude’s finger like it’s nothing, and the next he’s helping old grannies across the street. What’s he gonna do next, start picking up litter?”

“I think he had to do that for community service already,” Cesar offers. Ruby fixes him with one of his patented looks; Cesar, unfortunately, has long since outgrown any of their effects.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he says, and then, when Oscar’s back in earshot, “since when are you and my abuela friends?”

Oscar’s eyebrows screw up. He looks a lot like Cesar when he does that, not that Ruby’s used to him not looking stupidly put together. Maybe the only time he’s seen him lose his cool is when he was telling him about the deal he had to make with the Prophets, over a year ago, or when the four of them—him, Cesar, Jamal and Monse—were reunited with everyone at the police station after—after. He remembers, in between being wrapped up by his own family, seeing Oscar scoop Cesar right up like they were all still kids. Well. They are still kids.

“She was buying product, homie,” Oscar says, and Ruby chokes on the last gulp of his Corona.

“I—”

“She been buying from me since I was your age, chiquillo,” he says, and when he smiles Ruby remembers why they call him Spooky. “Don’t worry homie. Some shit might change, but a lot stay the same. Right, C?”

“Right,” Cesar says, holding his beer up like a toast. Oscar laughs and shakes his head.

Ruby…Ruby will be having some words with his Abuelita when he gets home. For now, though, he accepts the new bottle Oscar offers him. Can’t take the Freeridge out of everyone.


	2. Chapter 2

“C’mon, C,” Oscar cajoles. He’s got an itty-bitty pair of Adidas in hand. All white, tight as hell. Cesar, six-going-on-seven and tired of Oscar dragging him to every shoe store at the mall, pouts. Stomps his little foot, and Oscar has to fight not to grin. “Last pair, I promise.”

“You said that at the last store,” Cesar says. Crosses his arms, even, in a Dodgers jersey, same as Oscar, hair shorn short now that summer’s come close. A 2 like Oscar keeps it.

He grins at him, tries to sound convincing: “I mean it this time.”

The look Cesar gives him is downright hilarious—eyebrows scrunched, clearly outraged. Well, as outraged as a six-year-old can look when he’s matching with his big brother. Some of the guys roast him over it, the way he fusses over Cesar, making sure he gets home to get him to bed on time, packing his lunch, buying them matching fits.

If Oscar doesn’t do it no one else will. He wants his kid brother to have at least some good memories of him. He knows better than to think he’ll be around forever, considering he’s been running with the Santos for two years now.

“I’m hungry,” Cesar whines. Oscar raises an eyebrow.

“We ain’t been here that long,” he says, because it’s definitely been less than two hours. Maybe one, at most. Can’t have been that long, really. “We ate at home.”

“I want a pretzel,” Cesar says. Makes his eyes go big; Oscar wants to know where he picked that up. It’s hard enough to say no to the mocoso as is.

“Try these on,” Oscar offers, shaking the shoes a little bit, “and I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

“You’re lying,” he says, even if it’s clear he wants it to be true.

“One more,” Oscar says, “come on. Don’t you wanna match?”

“You don’t have those.”

“…no,” Oscar says, “but I can buy some for me, too.”

Cesar’s eyebrows pull together again. Cute as hell. “So we’re not done.”

“Almost,” Oscar says, and Cesar sighs real big, “c’mon, C, it’s not that bad.”

The kid’s grumbling, but he sits like Oscar asks, presses his toes up when Oscar bends to check if he’s got enough room. Oscar’s not sure if he’s going to hit a growth spurt soon, but his birthday’s coming up anyway; shoes are a good investment, he figures. He finds his own pair easy enough, and soon—but not as soon as Cesar would like, of course—they’re finally walking out of the store. Oscar steers them towards the food court, gets distracted by one of the menswear shops they pass.

“You think they got Dickies?” he asks Cesar, like the chiquillo is going to have any idea. Cesar looks at him like he’s an idiot, which is fair. “Okay, okay, ya, I’ll buy you some ice cream,” and can’t help but laugh at the way it makes all the irritation fall away, Cesar happy and grinning like they’re any other pair of brothers in the whole city.


	3. Chapter 3

Oscar says, “Chiquillo. What are you doing,” and Cesar looks up with wide eyes. He’s been left to his own devices, Oscar out front with a few of his friends while Cesar decided to make some art. Usually Oscar likes it when he does that—always hangs up the pictures on the fridge, switches them out every few weeks when it’s full. And he keeps all of them, too, Cesar’s seen him. He doesn’t throw them out. Says he likes all the art Cesar makes.

At school this week, they’ve been using _dry erase boards_. They’re cool—Cesar likes wiping away what he’s written with his fingers, like that everything can disappear in one little swipe. He might have taken a few of the markers from school today. It’s fine, as long as he returns them, he figures. He remembers his teacher saying that they were special and were the reason _dry erase boards_ worked in the first place.

Cesar points at his drawing—a combination of stick figures and greenery, the best he could do with the black and green markers he brought home. “Drawing.”

“I can see that,” Oscar says, eyebrow up like Cesar’s in trouble or something. Maybe he doesn’t know the markers are special. Exciting—Cesar gets to tell him something new this time. “Why are you drawing on the wall, C?”

“Oh,” he says, clearly proven right, “don’t worry, _mano_! These are special.”

“Yeah?” Oscar crosses his arms. “How?”

“They’re _dry erase markers_,” Cesar says, carefully, “that means they come off.”

Oscar opens his mouth, then stops. Brings one hand up to his chin like he’s thinking. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Cesar says, “we use them at school now.”

“Uh-huh,” his brother says, and then, “oye. Show me how it works, C.”

“Sure!” Cesar reaches out, rubs his hands over the bold lines and—nothing happens. He blinks. Tries again. Same thing. He takes a deep breath. Tries a third time, presses harder, and when nothing happens he looks up at Oscar. Feels the tears start to gather in his eyes.

“Maldita—” Oscar closes his eyes and inhales. Says, “Don’t cry.”

“Oscar,” Cesar says, voice wobbly.

“Cesar,” Oscar says back, but then Cesar takes a ragged breath and he comes close to him, stoops down so that they’re at the same level and rests his hand on his shoulder. “Mano. Hey.”

“It’s supposed to come off,” Cesar says, like he needs to convince himself. He’s not sure what he did wrong—hates the thought of Oscar being mad at him, besides.

“Yeah, C,” Oscar says, “they got special boards for that, don’t they?”

Cesar blinks. Thinks back to what his teacher was telling them in class. He says, quiet, “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_,” Oscar says, but he’s smiling a little bit. “You gotta use _both_, not just one. These’re just regular walls, sabes.”

“I didn’t know that,” Cesar says, trying not to whine. He sniffs a little, and Oscar tugs him close, wraps his arm around him and presses a kiss to his head.

“I know, homie,” he says. “That’s why we don’t write on the walls. Or draw.”

“I’m sorry,” Cesar says, solemn.

“I appreciate that, C,” Oscar says, raising his eyebrows again. Sighs again. “C’mon. I think I know how to fix it.”

“Are we gonna have to paint?” Cesar says, perking up again. He likes painting.

“Nah,” Oscar says, “not this time. You know where the rubbing alcohol is?”

“Yeah.” Oscar tells him he’s not allowed to grab it unless an adult is asking. Cesar’s not sure why else he’d want to—it smells, anyway. Has a little floating piece of green in it, for some reason, though he’s seen it like that at the Martinez’s place, too.

“Go grab it for me, yeah?” Oscar says, and then, when Cesar tries to step away from him, “And you gotta return them markers, g, I don’t want no calls saying you stealing stuff from class.”

“I’m just borrowing them,” Cesar says, making his eyes go big. Oscar laughs a little.

“Yeah,” he says, and reaches out to ruffle his hair, “I know.”


	4. Chapter 4

The house feels bigger than you remember. Doesn’t matter that it’s more run-down, sheets up instead of curtains and smelling like mota and not yellow Fabuloso. You’ll call Adrian a fucking bum later, take a deep breath now instead like you can still smell the salt of the ocean. He let you sit there in the sand long enough that you know he’s counting it as a favor. Didn’t get out of the car or nothing, just sat there chain-smoking while some song you didn’t recognize blared on the radio.

You ain’t ever thought the beach was like this house. Nothing but wide open skies, an endless ocean—this house, this neighborhood, it’s always been the opposite. Walls and fences everywhere. Didn’t matter how good you were at knocking them down when it came to getting what you wanted. You’re still stuck on the inside, even if you’re finally out of prison.

“Cesar,” you say, and even your voice sounds different, now. You got used to saying his name into a shitty phone every few weeks, never knowing if Adrian was going to tell you that the kid wasn’t home that day. The conversations were stilted, sometimes. You wanted to remind him that you loved him, that you were fine, that you would be home soon. Only one of those things stayed through the full four years. You try not to think about it too hard.

“Yeah?” you hear someone say. Doesn’t sound like your kid brother—can’t be. But then someone steps out from the hallway and you do a double-take. Looks like Cesar and not like him all at once. Four years suddenly between you in a way you hadn’t realized when it was just the two of you on the phone saying nothing to each other until Adrian took the phone away.

He blinks and you feel the breath catch in your throat. Think of how much he looks like you, now, but how he looks like your mom, too. He says, “Oh. You’re back.”

When you swallow it hurts. “Yeah,” you say, “Adrian ain’t tell you?”

“Nah,” Cesar says. He watches you like if he looks away you’ll disappear. You think that’s what you’re feeling, too. “He didn’t…say nothing. Not to me.”

“Huh,” you say. Rub your hand over the back of your head, your jaw, afterwards. You nod a little bit. “Pues. Aquí estoy.”

“Yeah,” Cesar says. They’re standing a few feet away from each other. Just watching. Your hands are shaking, just a little bit. Still trying to make sense of who it is that’s standing in front of you. Still wanting to hold him, maybe, like he’s little still and you ain’t been locked up for four years. “Dope.”

You laugh. Nothing but a puff of air. “Yeah?” you say. Your voice cracks, a little bit. “It’s been four years. That all you gonna say to me?”

“I—” He stops. Takes a step closer and then stops again. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says, even if it doesn’t sound like it. Something’s off about all of this. Something you can’t make sense of, but you’ll fix it, whatever the issue is.

You take a deep breath. Maybe he can tell you want to finally fall apart, out of that fucking cell and in a house that—that you don’t love, maybe, but that’s a reprieve, if nothing else. He takes a another step towards you, and then another, and then you’ve got an armful of your escuincle again, bigger now than when you left him, familiar either way.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Cesar says, muffled against your shoulder, and this time you can tell he means it. You know _you_ do, when you tell him you are, too.


	5. Chapter 5

Tijuana isn’t LA. Oscar’s only eight, but he knows this already. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what LA is really like, even. All he can think of is his father, or the little house they left however long ago.

Mamá says they’ve been gone long enough that it doesn’t matter. After school she sits with him and goes over his homework with him, translates it to English when he needs it and tells him his Spanish is better than ever. She looks happier, here. Not so thin. Doesn’t sleep as much.

Back home, in LA, they used to tell him that he looked like his father. Here, he gets the opposite, and Mamá smiles with all her teeth when they say so. They tell her she should have had another one, or two, or three, _que guapo está tu niño_. She’ll touch the back of his head when they say it, his curls grown out like they never are back home, and stay smiling.

_No hay patria como México_, she tells him. _I was born in San Diego, but I grew up across the border. Do you know what that means?_

She wants a different answer every time—Oscar can’t always make sense of it, try as he might. It means she’s Mexican, American, Chicana, every other word. She cut her hair short around Christmastime, and her hair is shiny in the mornings when they walk to the tortillería to buy tortillas for the week. She has him name the things they see in English and in Spanish, says when he gets older maybe they’ll move back North again, but not California this time. Maybe El Paso. Maybe Tucson.

_Cómo te llamas?_ she asks.

_Oscar Diaz._

_No. Aquí, cómo te llamas?_

_Oscar Díaz Reyes._

_Exactly_, she tells him, and holds him close to her until he squirms away.

Eventually, they’ve been there so long that Oscar stops wondering if they’ll go back home. Mamá ignores him when he asks about his father, so he’s learned not to say his name. August is approaching and school will start up again soon and Mamá says that maybe they should head down to Ensenada before it starts.

A black car—a Mustang, Oscar will realize, when he’s fourteen and going through photos his mother’s left to rot in the garage—pulls upon a Monday. The neighborhood goes quiet, the sound of rap echoing in a way Oscar has never heard before. He’s been here years and can’t remember the last time anything was so soundless. Mamá’s hand goes tight over Oscar’s shoulder.

_Oscar_, she says in Spanish, _go get your tía._

_Where is she?_

_Buying fruit_, she says_. Go._

_Hold on, now, mijo_, his father says, climbing out of the car. Oscar can see his face there, when he looks at him. _Aren’t you going to say hi to your old man?_


	6. Chapter 6

Adrian doesn’t say anything when Oscar tells him to turn the wrong way at the intersection that should lead him home. Just turns the way he says to, his jaw harder now than it was the last time the two of them were in the car together. Years that feel like decades between them.

Oscar can’t think about it, though. Won’t let himself. He’s got to get home, he knows that. Cesar’s there. He hasn’t seen him in ages—probably once in the last six months, the kid growing broad-shouldered faster than he could make sense of and quieter than Oscar likes. Quieter than he ever has been.

He’ll get home tonight and start to fix it. But first he’s got to get himself settled. It’s like there’s a hook behind his bellybutton pulling him in the opposite direction. A sea of—not rage. Not sadness. Something bittersweet in its aftertaste, lingering in the hollow of his throat no matter how he tries to swallow it back down.

He kicks his shoes off when they get there. Adrian doesn’t get out, just lights up a cigarette that hangs, lazily, out the window. It doesn’t matter to Oscar. Adrian could drive off and he wouldn’t notice. The sand is still warm, and he just walks. Doesn’t think about it, moves like someone else is making him. At the edge of the water the waves lick up his ankles. The sand sinks, tries to take him back.

When he breathes it hurts. Lungs shuddering, the air salty. He swallows and it’s still painful, still a reminder of the last four years but also, maybe, a promise for the next five, ten, twenty. Everything feels big. He can barely make out the horizon, the sky and ocean an endless blue that feels brand new after so long away.

He takes a step further, pauses to roll up his pants—same pair he was wearing when he was sentenced, the only nice ones he owned. They don’t fit him the same and he didn’t want to stop to change into the jeans Adrian brought him. It doesn’t really matter. The water feels warm against his skin. Same as it always does. Like he never left.

It’s like this moment is just for him. The first and last calm moment of his life. He stares out into the early afternoon and thinks about what it would mean to just keep walking into it. Not because he wants to drown, but just to know what would happen.

He tucks that thought away, like so many others, and turns back to Adrian. Freeridge waits for no man, and Oscar knows what_ inevitable_ means.


	7. Chapter 7

His cellmate’s a born-again Christian. Catholic, he says. 

Oscar hasn’t been to Church since he was fourteen, his aunt threatening to embarrass him every day for the rest of his life if he didn’t listen to his catequista teacher and get confirmed. She might be tiny but she’s scary, and she’s the only real mother Oscar’s ever had, so he listened. 

That doesn’t mean he followed up with it, of course. He doesn’t really care what anyone has to say about the decisions that led to him being stuck in a cell in Corcoran for the next however many years, and he definitely doesn’t want to talk about it with Ricky Molina from Oakland with the bad Elvis-cut who clearly needs an Adderall prescription.

If they weren’t locked up, Oscar could probably help out with that, actually.

“I’m just saying, man,” Ricky says. He says that a lot. _I’m just saying_. _Man_. His accent a little different from Oscar’s, more like the Chicanos up in the Bay. Of course it is.

Right now, it’s lights out. Oscar’s on day 203 out of—however many. All he does is keep his head down and work out and avoid being mistaken for a Sureño. The food is shit. He misses home. Ricky thinks he can somehow convince Oscar that the real reason he’s in here is because he wasn’t _godly_ enough and not because he fucked up on a job. He’s a little like tía Alejandra, in that sense.

Thing is, Ricky’s not family, which means Oscar’s tolerance for the bullshit is approximately zero.

“Homie,” Oscar says, and he knows he sounds like he’s about to snap and get a life sentence thrown at him, “what your boy say, huh, when you kept writing him about fucking Leviticus?”

Ricky goes quiet. Oscar knows the answer. He steadfastly refuses to feel bad for bringing it up.

Ricky’s here on a murder charge. First felony, first arrest. Killed a white boy, though, so he’s here for twenty-five, might get out early if his lawyer can spin it right. He might not look it but he was gangbanging too, not that he brings it up all that often. Maybe it’s because of Corcoran but he’s a chill kid. Quiet. _Godly_. Oscar figures he’ll be out in fifteen, twenty. There’s just no way the board will look at him and see a stone cold killer.

No one really messes with Ricky, anyway, even before Oscar showed up. They’re not friends but Oscar’s not going to let the kid get fucked over like that. He just turned eighteen, tried as an adult that spring, before Oscar got sentenced. Ricky not looking like a gangbanger, and not really acting like one, either, doesn’t mean he doesn’t come from that same past though.

The Christian thing is new, from what Oscar understands. Ricky’s boy, though, his best friend back in Oakland, doesn’t seem to fond of it. Shit, Oscar isn’t either, but he’s stuck in a cell with the guy. Which is how he knows that Ricky’s boy hasn’t written in ages, has said that he doesn’t give a fuck about whatever it is Ricky’s on about. Ricky hasn’t said anything to Oscar about it, but it has to sting.

It must, with the way Ricky goes quiet. Oscar bites his own tongue. It’s like kicking a puppy, or hurting Cesar’s feelings. Ricky’s just a kid. It’s not fair that he’s stuck here so much longer that Oscar is. Oscar doesn’t even feel bad about what he did. He sighs.

“I ain’t ever been a saint, homes,” he says, finally. “Don’t matter that we’re Santos where I’m from. God ain’t looking out for me.”

“That’s not how it works, Diaz,” Ricky says after a while. He sounds mostly normal. Maybe a little tired. “But I feel you.”

“Sure,” Oscar says. Ricky’s not going to give it up but it’s fine. At least Oscar still gets letters, at least he’ll be out of here, sooner than later.

But not soon enough.


End file.
